


The Cakerona Virus

by Emeraldwhale



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Depression, Gen, Poetry, Quarantine, every time i think ive hit rock bottom, someone holds a gun to my head and tells me to dig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwhale/pseuds/Emeraldwhale
Summary: Another vent piece.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	The Cakerona Virus

**Author's Note:**

> I'm PMSing pretty hard, and everything feels like too much right now. Have a fucking poem.

You dedicate years of your life to making a cake.

You study every technique.

You learn all sorts of different things,

from different chefs all around the world.

You invest in the best ingredients you can find.

You grow the wheat, grain and sugar.

You raise chickens and cows for eggs and milk,

You churn milk into butter by hand.

You finally mix them all together and put them in the best oven money can buy.

You spend days stacking each layer onto the cake.

You cover each in a delicate frosting.

You pipe tens of thousands of roses all across its surface.

You cut your first slice.

And right as the frosting touches your lips,

it catches on fire.

And burns your house down.

You're dragged away by firemen as you watch all your expensive cooking utensils melt into blobs.

Your cows and chickens are dead.

Your fields are destroyed by locusts.

Your cookbooks from the farthest reaches of the country are reduced to ash.

The fire chief approaches you.

You're told you're aren't allowed to bake again for at least a year,

but who really even knows how long.

Your neighbors,

People who have already eaten their cake,

they have the audacity to say they understand.

They say that we're all suffering. That their houses are gone too.

That their livestock are all gone and their fields are all ruined too.

They talk about how lucky we are,

living in a time were at least we can still watch baking videos

and maybe sometimes get to smell cake, if we're lucky.

Fuck you.

Fuck your cake.

Fuck your house,

and your farm,

and the crumbs that still linger on the corners of your mouth.

You could _never_ understand.

You can't even

_begin_

to comprehend

all that's been stolen from me.

Of just what I've been robbed of.

If you say we're in the same boat,

then that you must be on a first class cruise

because I'm in an inflatable kiddie pool

tied to the back of the ship

right next to the exhaust pipe

in shark infested waters.

And every day,

my stomach growls:

a reminder of what could have been.

And every time

I am reminded

that my hunger is more

than the sum of it's parts.


End file.
